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Farewell
f a r e w e l l a songfic series | the pantaloon | addict with a pen | march to the sea | oh ms believer | isle of flightless birds | kitchen sink | forest | slowtown | memories | dream | trojans | first part one: the pantaloon --author’s note-- a pantaloon is defined as either: pants, a crazy old man, or someone who is dead or dying. what it means here is whatever definition you think it is. ---- Your grandpa died When you were nine His first memory was his parent’s distress. Was that a bad thing? Yes, probably, but he didn’t know so and was grew up to think otherwise. He was just a young kit at the time, cinnamon colored with bright copper eyes. His name was Rowankit, named for the large rowan tree his mother gave birth at. His sisters, Gingerkit and Russetkit, were both younger than him. Gingerkit was stillborn, leaving his parents distraught but able to move on. They were guided by Rowankit’s grandfather, one of the few elders in his medicine-depleted clan. War had been upon them for many moons, so long Rowankit had never known a peaceful world. This made it so he and Russetkit could never appreciate their grandfather’s stories, a quick transportation to this world that he had never known. It was a rainy day. In CloverClan, rain was uncommon, so a young Rowankit was out, mystified by drops of wonder falling from the sky. He played in the mud and puddles, squeaking and mewing happily at his sister as they played. Warriors watched them, chuckling as they attempted to take shelter but still appear to be working. Apprentices considered themselves better than the kits and stayed in their den, leaving the camp a paradise of open space. Midday slowly crept over the horizon, shining light through the thick mist of gray clouds. Some of the wonder had worn off as Rowankit’s mind slowly made its way to other things, such as fighting off Russetkit for milk. Despite the other cats finally venturing out and about, Rowankit and Russetkit, cold and wet, dried off in the Nursery with Russetkit. To his surprise and annoyance, as his grandfather had never been the most appealing of characters to Rowankit, Rushfoot made his way through the entrance, his twinkling eyes and obvious happiness overpowering his graying muzzle and joint pain. He quickly ducked aside to cough. “Is the weather good today, Lilybreeze?” Rushfoot good-naturedly asked his daughter, but the note of joking ever-present in his voice was gone. Rowankit had noticed what the others hadn’t, but he wasn’t aware it was odd. Rushfoot’s mind had slowly been deteriorating, the hint of sarcasm or subtle brush of snark gone. “Very funny,” his mother had responded. His grandfather looked confused but then horrified at himself. “Hello, little Rustkit,” he said dotingly to his sister, who looked confused. “Rustkit?” she squeaked, crawling back to Lilybreeze. “Russetkit,” he corrected. “My memory’s been awful today. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Rowankit glimpsed his mother’s face, which was grim. “Here to tell the kits a story?” Rowankit buried himself in his mother’s soft fur as she spoke, not wanting to scent the unpleasantness as his grandfather suddenly made dirt. “I-I,” he started. “Get to the medicine cat,” Lilybreeze directed, worry creeping into her tone. He scurried off quickly, leaving Lilybreeze to clean up the mess. They said he had Lost his mind The medicine cat’s face was grim when he greeted Lilybreeze. Rowankit peeked through the entrance as his father, Weaselpelt, groomed his kits through whispers everything would be okay. Rushfoot sat in the corner of the nursery. “Lost his mind,” Rowankit heard the medicine cat say, “Nothing we can do.” He heard the choked sobs of his mother. He heard the medicine cat’s sad sigh. He also heard the yowls of “MarshClan, attack!” Everything was a blur from there. He and his sister were shunted into a hole, told to hide, to be quiet, to act dead. It was confusing. He didn’t understand. Weren’t other cats supposed to be friendly? Supposed to be helpful Clanmates? Why were they fighting? He heard things kits were not supposed to hear. Screams of agony. Cries for mercy. The happiness he had always known shattered, flew away. He closed his eyes and prayed for it to end. When he opened his eyes again, everything was in ruin. The carefully constructed dens were on the ground. Scratch marks were embedded forever in trees. The ground was ripped apart. Blood was stained everywhere. He stumbled into what remained of his home, the Nursery. Rowankit saw his grandfather’s body ripped to shreds on the ground. You have learned Way too soon You should never trust the pantaloon Now he truly knew the peace his grandfather had spoken of, had been so confident would come, was a lie, proof in his mind he was right to never put trust in him. Could he put trust in anyone? Anything could be a lie, another tale of meaningless words designed to trick him into a different reality. Rowankit did not speak often, a young kit molded into a quiet, cold, and calculating tom who always spoke the truth. Lying was false hope. Although this may be perceived as quick, remember this is a three moon old kit who has never known a happy life and his parents weren't the kind to explain right and wrong. Lilybreeze wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, and Weaselpelt thought they could find their own way. He never trusted anyone, much less something that was perfect or flawless, which he was convinced was something manipulated by the system. Rowankit was wise beyond his years, and when he reflected on his apprentice ceremony, thought it could’ve easily come sooner. “Russetkit, Rowankit, please take your places on the high rock.” This was the leader speaking. Rowankit observed what was going on: everything from the leader’s determined posture to the spring in Russetkit’s step as they climbed it. They stood, facing the Clan, and Rowankit held his breath, feeling the pressure of everyone’s eyes on him. Rowankit’s attention melted away with everyone’s eyes and he touched noses with his mentor, glad to be free with this. Now it's your turn To be alone Rowanpaw excelled at training, picking up on his mentor’s subtle techniques to be able to fight and hunt like a warrior quickly. Social life was a whole different battle. CloverClan’s numbers had been greatly diminished, and out of the five apprentices that weren’t Rowanpaw, Russetpaw, his sister, was the only one he considered a friend. The others were jealous of his skills and made him suffer. An excellent detector of deception due to his paranoia, he recognized their insults as false but they still got under his skin. Over time, even his sister drifted away from him, busy with her friends. Even the new apprentices followed the lead of the others and neglected Rowanpaw, who could kill them in an instant and battle. He considered himself quite alone in the world, with his parents off of his back and sister not even sticking up for him anymore. Rowanpaw spoke little in a day, only responding to warriors. Slowly he developed a sense of haughtiness, considering himself better than the others for not insulting or lying. Once this sense overpowered his instinct and he responded to the others that he was better than them, which was rebutted with laughter and mocking. But the haughtiness was always there. Finally, as he got older, his sister approached him about who he had a crush on. He was so taken aback he responded, “What?” “Who do you like?” “As a friend?” “No, like-like.” “You’re being vague.” “I’m talking about love, you idiot! StarClan, I thought you pay attention!” If cats could turn red, Rowanpaw would have. “I do!” “Then answer me!” “I don’t like-like,” he said in a mocking tone, “Anyone.” “Well you’ve got to start soon,” Russetpaw clarified, “The Clan’s already low on numbers. It’s your duty.” At this, Rowanpaw broke into stutters and retreated to his den. Find a wife And build yourself a home The problem was that what Russetpaw had said was strikingly true. Now that Rowanpaw had reflected upon it, the Clan's numbers were quite low. With nearly no medicine and food scarce when it was still leaf-fall, this leaf-bare was not a promising one. There were a few kits with many moons to go before apprenticeship, but they wouldn't be warriors soon enough to contribute. So he settled down in his nest, and considered his options. In the midst of a war, it may be slightly shallow to think about the best potential candidate to have kits with, but all cats have their distractions. A warrior wasn't possible, he thought, they were much too old and wouldn't be accepting of someone as young as him. Anyway, with the same amount of warriors and queens as apprentices, they probably all had mates anyway. The apprentices were a litter of two sisters and a brother a few days older than him, one she-cat and two toms a moon younger, and two she-cats and a tom freshly apprenticed. The older apprentices were Honeypaw, Heatherpaw, and Beepaw. Honeypaw and Heatherpaw had slipped into his spot and replaced him as Russetpaw's best friend. Beepaw was probably the friendliest to him, a dimwitted but funny tom who Rowanpaw could tolerate. Honeypaw and Heatherpaw were both cream minks with turquoise eyes, but had differing personalities. Honeypaw, a soft-spoken, quiet she-cat, usually kept her distance from Rowanpaw. Heatherpaw, on the other hand, was a bold and sharp-tongued she-cat who desperately tried to impress others. In Rowanpaw's case, this was the youngest warriors who had picked on him in their youth. Honeypaw could be an option, Rowanpaw mused. But he felt no actual attraction to her, just a slightly dull feeling. This was the same with the younger she-cat, Rainpaw, an agile and clever lilac she-cat who excelled at hunting. Her copper eyes struck fear into the hearts of any prey. But her problem was her protective brothers, Deerpaw and Duskpaw, who picked on Rowanpaw frequently, very jealous of him. The younger cats were intolerable and hyper to Rowanpaw, and were objects of loathing. While still in thoughts about petty things like if any of them could actually like him and whether to be protective of Russetpaw, he was distracted by something far more important than that. You have learned (im too lazy to italic it from here on) Way too soon That your dad is now the pantaloon You are tired You are hurt A moth ate through Your favorite shirt And all your friends fertilize The ground you walk Lose your mind He's seen too many stare downs Between the sun and the moon in the morning air How he used to hustle all the people Walking through the fairgrounds He's been around so long He's changed his meaning of a chair now Because a chair now, Is like a tiny island in the sea of all the people Who glide across the very surface That made his bones feeble The end can't come soon enough But is it too soon? Either way he can't deny He is a pantaloon You are tired You are hurt A moth ate through Your favorite shirt And all your friends fertilize The ground you walk Lose your mind You like to sleep alone It's colder than you know Cause your skin is so Used to colder bones It's warmer in the morning Than what it is at night Your bones are held together By your nightmares and your frights You are tired You are hurt A moth ate through Your favorite shirt And all your friends they fertilize The ground you walk Lose your mind